


Maybe Oracle

by The Spike (spike21)



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Gen, Genderswap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-03-21
Updated: 2007-03-21
Packaged: 2020-09-26 13:02:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20390137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spike21/pseuds/The%20Spike
Summary: Teyla's not invisible.





	Maybe Oracle

She misses her vagina and the slippery sweet button of her clitoris, but she likes the way everyone listens to her now. She never has to present herself to be heard, they simply turn at the sound of her voice.

It’s a reedy voice but unmistakably male. The way _she_ is unmistakably male now – a small man in a way she never was small as a woman, but hard and strong. A man and still herself. Still Teyla Emmagen of Athos. Except... not.

It is the ‘not’ she finds surprising. She was so certain she knew herself, never felt herself tied to womanhood, the things of women – babies and cooking and caring for the sick. She was a leader of _people_ and thus she was always, in her mind, a person first. A woman, yes, but not defined by her sex so much as by her place.

And yet when she changed her place to live in the City of the Ancestors, she still knew herself. And now when all that has changed is her sex she feels redefined in ways she never imagined.

She misses her breasts and the shivery swell of her nipples, but she loves the new range of motion in her arms, the ease in her back and shoulders. She misses the easy bend and stretch of her limbs, but she loves the way her muscles swell like ripening fruit under her skin. She misses the pride she had in proving herself, a woman in a world of men, ah but she loves her new strength, her new fire, the new and brutal force behind her blows.

Her new appetites are less enjoyable. She is hungrier, in all ways. Hunger like a hole in her belly that doesn't care what fills it. Desire no longer a warming, skirling bloom but an urgent need for release. No pleasure in the journey to completion, only the need to end the torment of wanting. And all of it so often on her mind now. Her eyes on _this_ one, _that_ one, imagining them naked, aroused, under her as she hasn't since she was a blossoming girl.

And worse, her hard won inner peace feels fragile now -- the thinnest skin across a well of rage she'd thought long drained. Rage against the Wraith, against the Genii, the Asurans -- against anyone who would take what is _hers_. Rage that is no longer distant and cold but a red hot goad to seek out her rivals, hunt them, see their blood run out upon the ground.

Meditation in the face of _that_ is work, not peace. The urge to rise as soon as she sits, the overwhelming need to go, to do, to eat, fight, fuck.

No peace in anything but muscle and bone and heart and mind worked to their limit. No peace at all most nights, just exhausted sleep.

No, she is not pleased with that part of the trade at all. Nor yet with the dulling of her senses, the numbing of her emotions into simple imperatives, the thick stink of her own sweat, the coarse hairs that sprout from her cheeks and chin, the loose tug of a fleshy sack between her thighs. All of it crude and rough and ugly.

Oh, but the way they listen when she speaks…

She thinks she cannot trade that back for anything.

*


End file.
